


Ordinary Average Guys

by tisfan



Series: Imagine Clint and Coulson prompts [11]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers Tower, First Dates, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 09:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12454119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: As far as the rest of the Avengers know, Clint and Coulson have always been together; and wow, are they dull.A behind the scenes look at the ordinary, average guys on the team.





	Ordinary Average Guys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperdollkisses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdollkisses/gifts).



> For this prompt that ended up in my inbox (and posted again to Imagine Clint & Coulson)
> 
> Clint/Coulson: First meet for C/C, Natasha bringing either C or C (LMAO) into SHIELD.

Dealing with zombies was exhausting. Also, impossible. Stark was already explaining in his loud _this is science and I am an authority_ voice how the reanimated, brain-eating, shambling and moaning corpses were not, in fact, zombies, and merely badly malfunctioning nanobots that had escaped from AIM’s laboratories and terrorized a small town upstate before SHIELD eventually called the Avengers in to deal with the ravening hordes.

“Zombies, Stark,” Clint insisted. They were clustered in the living room, half-drowsing, most of them avoiding the shit out of medical. “Just call ‘em zombies. It’s easier.”

“Sleeping here, Agent Barton,” Phil said. He was curled up on the sofa, head on Clint’s thigh. SHIELD had been onsite for more than ten days with minimal sleep while they tried to fix the problem. It had taken Cap rounding them up, Stark knocking a few of them out, and Banner taking one of them to pieces in his makeshift lab in order to figure out a way to stop them. Altogether gross.

“Saved the world again,” Barnes piped up, stuffing a chocolate in his boyfriend’s mouth and thereby shutting up the flow of science. Thank you, Winter Smolder. “This should not get old.”

“You mind not wakin’ up my bae, here?” Clint ran a hand over Phil’s shoulder. Poor man needed his sleep.

“You two are adorable,” Stark said, licking chocolate off Bucky’s fingers. Ug. Like Stark was one to complain that people were cute. He and Barnes were sickening. Truly. “How’d you meet?”

“Oh, you know, th’ usual,” Clint said. “Nat dropped him in my lap an’ said ‘You two should get dinner together.’ Which is how I got a new handler.”

Nat, practically disappearing into the pile of blankets that she and Banner were sharing, gave a mysterious little smile. “Yep,” she said. “That’s exactly what happened.”

***

_Eight years ago_

“I need some fuckin’ back up here,” Anderson’s voice crackled over the coms. A faint, agonized shriek and Clint knew they wouldn’t be hearing that guy again.

Fucking drug kingpin had to have a goddamn army. One misstep by their inside mole and suddenly the entire operation was in jeopardy. And that was _Nat_ down there. The SHIELD team had gone in for an extraction after Nat’s cover was blown, but they’d barely made it to the edge of the compound before the fuckin’ army of mercs had shown up.

“Come on, come on,” Clint said, smacking the side of the helicopter. “Fly faster, they’re gettin’ slaughtered.”

He jerked himself into a rappelling rig. “Just circle around, I’ll cut ‘em down.” He hooked the carabiner onto his belt, grabbed his bow, and jumped.

Arrows snapped to his fingers with ease, finding targets without even thinking. Upside down, swinging from a rope like goddamn Tarzan.

“There’s anti-aircraft in that cluster, southwest,” the pilot’s voice was calm in his ear. “I’m going to head west, you tag them, or our little rescue party’s going to be over before the cake is ready.”

“Always need me some cake,” Clint said.

One hell of a pilot, the man flew like he was an angel, spinning the small craft around in turns that should have upended them. Clint continued to fire, bagging the two guys setting up the portable SAM. “I got eyes on Romanov,” Clint reported. “Can you get us around to the north end?”

One of the mercs got in a lucky shot with some EA rounds. Little fires and explosions dotted the chopper. “Get your ass back in here, Barton,” the pilot called. “We’re leaking fuel and we can’t get there in time. We need to pull out.”

“No can do, boss,” Clint said. “That’s my girl down there. I didn’t go through all this just to lose her now.”

“Well, catch, then.”

Clint looked up in time to see the pilot take his hands off the stick -- the chopper whirled wildly, dropping altitude and spinning like a top -- to snag Clint’s spare quiver. He grabbed a short range glider-kite and slid down Coulson’s rope. With a quick swipe of a combat knife, the pilot cut them free from the crashing chopper, expanded the kite, and snagged Clint in a bear hug.

The kite drifted them north as the chopper exploded behind them, taking out most of the north squad of mercs. They smashed into a tree. The pilot ended up, probably coincidentally, face first in Clint’s lap when Clint landed tailbone first, on the ground.

“Well, this looks bad,” the pilot said, staring up at the group of mercs surrounding them.

“Feels worse,” Clint whimpered, cupping his smashed balls. “Get down.”

The pilot ended up with his nose buried in Clint’s crotch as Clint snapped his bow up and fired. Strong arms went around Clint’s waist and the pilot opened up small arms fire behind them. Between the two of them, the mercs didn’t know what hit them. Mostly. One guy pulled a ‘possum and came up after Clint ran out of arrows. Machine gun pointed straight at Clint’s head.

“Aw, no,” Clint managed, flinching when the gunshot sounded, knowing he couldn’t do anything.

The man fell over, a splatter of blood where the back of his head used to be.

Nat grinned at him. “Sorry to interrupt your fun, boys. But this damsel got tired of waiting in the castle. I see you’ve met Phil.”

“Agent Romanov,” the pilot, Phil, apparently, said, “it’s good to see you again.” He was still firmly nestled in Clint’s lap.

“You two make a cute couple,” Nat said. “You should get dinner, sometime.”

“Sounds good to me,” Phil said, rolling to his feet and offering Clint a hand. “Nice to meet you officially, by the way, Agent Barton. I’ve heard a lot about you. Agent Coulson. Sorry about landing in your lap.”

“Buy me a pizza,” Clint teased, jazzed now that the mission was probably a success, “and you can sit in my lap any time you want.”

***

Clint sucked slurpie (Coke, Banana, and Cherry) noisily through his straw and wondered why Captain America thought Clint was the person to go to for dating advice.

Well, true, Clint was the one Avenger in a multi-year, mostly stable relationship -- and while Tony and Bucky were rapidly approaching a year together, Cap was still dealing with the weirdness that was his best friend from the future-now dating his best friend from the past-now. (Also, Cap’s weird insistence on calling the now, the future didn’t help when he was talking to Tony.)

Clint had also gotten the low-down from Bucky at one point as to how Steve had never actually gone on a date that Bucky hadn’t set up for him. Which hadn’t changed much, except for that Nat had spent most of the last year trying to set Steve up with everyone -- literally, _everyone_ \-- at SHIELD.

“So, what did you guys do, when you were dating?”

“We still are dating,” Clint pointed out, unwrapping a bag of Twizzlers with his teeth.

“You’re engaged, now,” Steve said.

Clint glanced down at his ring, the shimmer of gold like a promise. “Getting married’s not th’ finish line.” Because if someone hadn’t told Cap that by now, he really needed to know before he started dating _anyone_. “You don’t get there and say ‘okay, I’m done, I win.’ Relationships are _work_. Every single day, for the rest of your life.”

It was a wasted effort; Cap had already made his mind up and he was pushing past everything else that he thought was irrelevant. “Okay, okay,” he said. “What did you do on your first date?”

“Went to a concert,” Clint said, kicking his leg over the side of the chair. He sucked his straw again and got more noise than frozen deliciousness. “Aw, slurpee, no.”

***

_Seven and a half years ago_

If the terrorists hadn’t been so spread out, Phil would have taken the gun currently pressed at the side of his skull away from the idiot who held it.

Unfortunately, while he had a good line of sight on four of the other five -- including the one who was currently leaving a bruise on Phil’s skull -- the fifth one was off skulking around and Phil didn’t want to take chances with lives.

The assholes -- some splinter sect of radical Christianity who were particularly objecting to humorously altered Christmas music being performed ironically by atheists -- had jumped up with guns and the threat of explosives, just after the second song. Phil supposed _Walking ‘round in Women’s Underwear_ was pretty offensive, if you happened to take your stolen pagan holiday a little too seriously.

Phil, doing Phil things, had tried to talk them down before someone got hurt (mostly them, because Clint was in the audience and he was probably finding a perfect vantage point, and even if Clint wasn’t quite as good with a gun as he was with bow and arrow, he was no slouch, and these guys were going to be dead Real Soon Now if Phil didn’t find some way to stop them) which was how he wound up in the humiliating position of having a gun to his head and some Beefy Deacon boy’s arm around his throat.

Not really the impression he wanted to give on a first date.

With a dull whump, the lights went out all at once.

A flash of brilliant, white  before the sound of gunfire rattled out. Phil stepped back, grabbed the gun, twisted. Brought his former hostage-taker down with a quick strike across the face, a follow up to the throat, and then Phil was on the floor, scrambling for his SHIELD issued night goggle lenses. He got them on just in time to take out a second gun-toting fanatic who was groping around blindly in the darkness.

Everything was weird and green and Christmassy as he and Clint -- where was the man, anyway? Oh, there he was, hanging upside down by his knees in the fly-loft above the stage -- took out the terrorists.

Most of the patrons had the sense to get the fuck on the floor and stay there, but Clint had apparently recruited some ushers on the spot. Phil noticed the tell-tale black round lenses on a few faces as they pulled the audience to safety.

Oh, and look, Clint had managed to bring his bow to a fucking concert, how was that even possible?

At least he was going for disabling shots and subdual rather than killing outright. The file Phil had seen indicated that Clint was a little bloodthirsty, but Fury’s notes had been incomplete before.

It didn’t take long before everything was over, the house lights were back up and cops were leading a bunch of Hail Mary motherfuckers off to jail.

“Thanks, for that,” Phil said, nodding at the injured and humiliated but not dead terrorists.

“If I killed ‘em, they’d just be martyrs to the cause. Making them go up in front of a judge and have someone say ‘yes, this idiot bible-thumper did actually point a gun at a pregnant woman’ is the only thing I could do to make them ridiculous.”

Phil sometimes forgot that behind Clint’s dumb carnie routine, there was a keen analytical mind.

“Kind of a bad first date, though,” Phil pointed out.

“I dunno about that,” Clint said. He grinned, and then checked his watch. “I still get to walk you home an’ maybe I might get a little bit lucky. First base, at least.”

“Yeah? You think I’m some floozy?”

“A boy can hope.”

***

Melinda straightened Phil’s tie, although it hardly needed it. Even nervous as he was, Phil had been tying a tie for decades. He didn’t need her help, but he kinda appreciated it, nonetheless.

“It doesn’t bother you that he’s so much younger than you are?” Melinda asked. She was scowling, but that didn’t mean anything. Scowling was her natural expression, ever so much more interesting than resting bitch face.

“It’s about the same age difference between you and Daisy,” Phil said. He smiled, that little half turn of lip that was his natural expression.

“I wasn’t talking about me, Coulson,” Melinda said.

“Yes, you are,” Phil said. “And I love Daisy like a daughter, which should make it a little weird if she was dating my best friend, but at the same time, I love both of you, and I want you both to be happy.”

“I don’t need your permission,” Melinda said. The scowl intensified until it was almost taking over her entire face, which, for Melinda, was almost the equivalent of smiling.

“I wasn’t talking about you.”

Melinda rolled her eyes. “So, how’d you know?”

“Know what? About you and Daisy? Melinda, please. I am a spy.”

“No. How’d you know that Clint was… you know, the one?”

“I just couldn’t imagine him not in my life,” Phil said.

“Well, he’ll certainly be there now,” Melinda said.

“You’re not allowed to be gloomy on my wedding day.”

“I wasn’t talking about you.”

***

_Four years ago_

“Don’t you dare,” Phil said. He tightened the belt around Clint’s thigh, but the bleeding wasn’t slowing down at all.

“Nah, ‘s nice,” Clint said, waving a hand lazily, like he was talking about bad television or something. “S’all fuzzy an’ stuff. Doesn’t hurt. Always thought dyin’ ‘as s’posed to hurt.”

Phil barely resisted the urge to shove his thumb in the bullet hole and see if that hurt enough to wake Clint up out of the shock he was steadily slipping into.

“Where the hell is that evac?”

Phil gripped Clint’s hand harder. “Don’t you die on me, Barton.”

“Why not?” Clint said. He didn’t look unhappy, or even in pain, and Phil supposed that was something to be grateful for, but really, he’d just be grateful if Clint was in competent medical hands right about now. “You did.”

Phil’s free hand went to his heart, the scar that was left from Loki’s staff and the brutal, agonizing memories of being brought back to life through the Tahiti project, begging to die, and he was so damn glad Clint wasn’t in pain, because the thought of someone he loved experiencing that hell? He’d let Clint go in a heartbeat rather than putting him through that.

“I will march right down to hell and tell Lucifer Morningstar himself to let you come back to me,” Phil threatened.

“Least you know where I’m goin’.”

“You’re not.” Phil’s hand tightened on Clint’s. “You’re not going to die. I won’t let you.”

“You’re good, Phil,” Clint said, absently patting Phil’s knee and leaving a bloody palm print. “But you ain’t that good.”

“Perhaps he is not,” a new voice thundered. “And yet, fair archer, I am. It is not your time.”

“Thor,” Phil said. “He needs a doctor, he needs--”

“Fear not, son of Coul. I will get our friend the aid he needs.” And with a scoop, the god of Thunder snatched Clint up and flew off.

“Please, god,” Phil said, and he wasn’t sure which god he was praying to, God, or Thor. “Please let him live.”

***

Carol Danvers, aka Captain Marvel, was still covered with meteor dust and her skin was nearly sizzling re-entry heat when War Machine dropped onto the sidewalk in the super-hero landing next to her.

She laughed, flipped up his mask and laid a kiss on Rhodey in front of the whole world.

The headline scroll across the bottom of the screen. _Saving the Day again, Captain Marvel breaks ranks to engage in dubious fraternization with her superior officer…_

“You go get some, honeybear!” Tony said, watching the television as avidly as a housewife with her mid-day soaps. He already had his phone out, and Clint was pretty sure that Tony was about to call Rhodes and rudely interrupt the kiss that they’d all been waiting for; the sexual tension between Rhodes and Danvers had been thick as a brick for months.

“Ah, no,” Phil said, snatching the phone away. “Let them have their moment.”

“What would you know about a _moment_ , Agent Agent,” Tony said.

“That’s Director Agent to you,” Phil said, tucking the phone in his jacket pocket.

“Whatever,” Tony said. “You two have the most boring relationship ever. Have you ever kissed Clint on national television? Hell, you’ve barely kissed each other in front of us. Do you even kiss at all, or are you two like Ken dolls.”

“Just ordinary, average guys,” Clint said. He put his arm around Phil’s waist and his fingers tugged up the back of Phil’s shirt, rough calloused pads against the soft skin of Phil’s waist. “Don’t need to make a fuss.”

***

_Last night_

Phil tasted Clint’s mouth, letting his tongue move in slow, sensual patterns. He licked along the edge of Clint’s lip, the scruff of beard stubble rasped against his chin; Clint hadn’t shaved again. That wasn’t unusual, and Phil always appreciated the rough, eager feel of beard against his skin, particularly beard burn on his lower belly and thighs. He shivered, already thinking about it.

Clint was a slow kisser, for all that he was sloppy in everything else. Not frantic or needy, not bruising hard, but gentle, exploring, lingering. He prided himself on it, he didn’t just kiss and move on, fingers yanking on buttons, tugging open suit pants, moving from kiss to caress to fucking in only a few minutes. Little details, Clint had said. He relished them, cherished them. Under Clint’s hands, Phil felt like someone who was worthy of being cherished. Appreciated.

On the other hand, Clint was dressed only in sweatpants, commando underneath, and Phil could feel that through his suit and hnnng. Those thighs, and that ass. Phil was the one whining and trying to push things along, even as Clint’s tongue explored the corners of Phil’s mouth, tickling and teasing at the sensitive join.

Five seconds later, Clint was naked and Phil still fully dressed, which gave him the advantage. Phil took it, hands moving over Clint’s skin. Clint arched into Phil’s touch, as Phil curled his fingers around Clint’s cock, already more than half hard and straining, and tugged it all the way to attention.

“Not fair,” Clint whined, still keeping his lips on Phil’s. “Nowhere near th’ bed.”

“Sofa,” Phil urged. His need to get his hands on his husband was burning him up inside. He was going to go crazy if he didn’t touch and taste and--

Clint flopped down on the sofa and Phil was on his knees, spreading Clint’s thighs in seconds. Phil opened his mouth and took as much of Clint’s dick as he could manage in a single go, feeling it hot and heavy against his tongue, the head sliding smooth and slick over his soft palate.

“Oh, Christ, Phil,” Clint managed, gripping the sofa cushions for dear life, trying to keep himself grounded. Clint had a trigger-happy gag reflex and sometimes forgot that Phil really didn’t. Phil got his fingers under Clint’s thighs, pushed up, encouraged until Clint was rocking up into it, fucking Phil’s mouth.

Phil’s lips and tongue were tingling with it, heat pooled down his spine at the little, urgent noises that Clint was making. Phil worked him over, tasting the salt of Clint’s precome, his mouth moving in subtle ways, tongue swirling up and down and over, like Clint’s dick was the best thing Phil had ever tasted.

“Come on, baby,” Clint pleaded, “you gotta give me a turn at you.”

Phil pulled his mouth off Clint’s cock with a wet, sucking slurp. “I gotta, do I?” He gazed up at Clint from his position on the floor and Clint groaned at the sight. Phil went back to work, using his tongue and lips and fingers to make sure that Clint couldn’t even think straight enough to ask for a turn. Phil wasn’t ready for that; he wanted Clint to feel good, to feel appreciated and desired and wanted, before Phil even thought about stripping.

He wanted to take his time, enjoy Clint like a fine dinner, broiled steak with butter and a chocolate eclair and a glass of scotch on the rocks. To drink every bit of joy and lust out of his husband, to feel every single frisson of pleasure.

“Phil!”

Phil grinned around his mouthful, stroked Clint’s thighs to let Clint know he’d been heard. Not enough to stop torturing Clint. Around and around, Phil swirled his tongue, soft and hot circles along the head of Clint’s cock. Clint’s hips rocked up, he was close; Phil knew his husband’s tells and he circled a hand around the base, squeezing almost to the point of pain to shut it down. Continued on like that, another minute, hour, day, didn’t matter, until Clint was dripping with sweat, his thighs shaking like leaves in a storm, begging and pleading, until there was no prayer of holding out any longer.

“God,” Clint muttered.

“No need to pray,” Phil teased, then licked again at that swollen, dark head.

“I will think of some cunning retort _later_ , could you jus’ fuckin’ finish me off before I die?”

Phil gave a little insouciant shrug and went down for a third time, stroking down Clint’s shaft with a slippery tongue and agile fingers. Clint arched up again, his back a perfect curve against the sofa and screamed as he came.

Phil swallowed convulsively and Clint whimpered through the aftershocks as Phil licked every bit of spill off his skin. And then licked a bit more, just to be an ass. Clint squirmed, over sensitive and exhausted.

“You are a terrible, terrible man,” Clint accused, pushing futilely at Phil. He finally managed to grab Phil’s wrists and hold him, pinned, against Clint’s knees. “If I let you go, are you gonna be good?”

“Hell no,” Phil said with a smirk. “If you let me go, I’m going to be downright obscene.”

Clint lost his grip.

***

“Yep,” Phil agreed. “Ordinary, average guys.”


End file.
